Standing at the entrance to the main gambling room, he surveyed the crowd for familiar faces. The Salon was larger and far grander than the modest Cafe Mazarin, but the signs of gambling fever were the same.
The proprietor, the Marquis de Livry, came forward. The marquis bore a remarkable resemblance to the Prince Regent, both in girth and grandeur of manner. Smiling graciously, he said, "How delightful to see you this evening, your grace. What is your preference?"
"I'll wait to see what table calls me," Rafe said.
The marquis nodded, accustomed to gamblers who looked for magical signs- that fortune favored them. After urging Rafe to enjoy himself, Livry left to greet a party of Austrians.
Taking a glass of excellent burgundy from a footman, Rafe strolled through the crowd. With a feeling of inevitability, he saw Robert Anderson sitting at a faro table. The blond man had a talent for turning up in unexpected places. It seemed highly probable that Anderson was also involved in the murky shadows of intelligence gathering.
But if so, for whom did he work? The logical answer was that he kept his ears open on behalf of the British delegation. Yet Rafe had his doubts.
Shielded by a Corinthian column, he sipped his wine and studied the younger man. Again he felt that tantalizing sense of near-recognition, but could not identify it.
His attempts to remember were interrupted by a jovial greeting. "Evening, Candover. Good to see you again."
Rafe turned without enthusiasm to greet Oliver Northwood. He was surprised to find his old acquaintance at a place where the play was so deep, for men of much greater fortune than Northwood had been ruined in the Salon des Etrangers.
As the men exchanged idle talk, Rafe watched Anderson push half the counters in front of him across the table after losing a bet, as imperturbable in defeat as in victory. The man looked as blond and angelic as a choirboy. Was that what Maggie saw in him, that handsome face? Or did she fancy herself in love with him? What the hell did Anderson have that he himself didn't?
Rafe was shocked by the violent jealousy that surged through him. It was an unfamiliar emotion, and not one that he liked. He had always been willing to bid a graceful farewell to women who developed other preferences-except where Margot was concerned. Even thirteen years later, he bitterly resented Northwood's intimacy with her, and the anger he felt at the memory of Anderson slipping in Maggie's back door was a serious blow to his view of himself as a civilized man.
In an effort to control his primitive emotions, Rafe reminded himself that Anderson was just one of the men in Maggie's life. There was no point in being jealous merely because the bastard was the only one of her lovers Rafe knew.
The reflection was a singular failure at calming him.
Deciding that he might as well take advantage of the opportunity to learn more about his rival, Rafe said,
"Your colleague Anderson reminds me of someone, but I can't remember who. What's his background?"
"Hasn't any." Northwood drained his glass of wine. "Fellow just appeared in Paris in July, and Castlereagh took him into the delegation. Must have had letters of recommendation, but I don't know from whom. Says he isn't related to any Andersons I know." He hailed a footman and exchanged his empty glass for a full one. "Comes here often."
"Really? Then whatever Andersons he comes from must be well off."
Northwood frowned, giving the appearance of a man coming to a decision. "Perhaps I shouldn't say this, Candover, but there's something dashed smoky about Anderson. Sprang from nowhere, always poking into things that don't concern him, then disappears like a bloody alley cat. And he has more money than he should."
"Interesting." Rafe tried to suppress his unworthy excitement. "Have you spoken to Castlereagh about your suspicions?"
After looking around to assure that no one was within listening distance, Northwood said quietly, "I've talked to Castlereagh, all right. That's why I'm here-the foreign minister asked me to keep an eye on Anderson. Informally, you know." At Rafe's questioning look, he added, "To see if he talks to anyone suspicious. Shouldn't be telling you this, but I know you can be trusted, and want to put you on your guard. You know what the situation is here in Paris. Can't be too careful."
Northwood looked as if he were weighing whether to continue, then added in an almost inaudible voice, "Confidential information has been getting out of the British delegation. Don't want to slander an innocent man-but we're watching Anderson very closely."
Rafe had never seen Northwood so serious, and he wondered if he had misjudged his old schoolmate. Perhaps the hail-fellow-well-met demeanor was a disguise. He studied the other man, trying to be objective.
Though Rafe could not like Northwood's vulgarity of manner, he had no reason to distrust the man. Had jealousy been coloring Rafe's judgment? Undoubtedly.
The same jealousy made it all too easy to believe the worst of Anderson. Rafe reminded himself that he was in Paris to help his country, not to pursue personal intrigues. But if the blond man was a traitor to England, it would be pure pleasure to see him caught and punished.
Rafe said, "I'll keep my eyes open, and perhaps I'll remember why Anderson looks familiar. It might be significant."
After a nod of complicity, he drifted from Northwood, ending at the rouge-et-noir table. It was a game that involved more luck than skill, so Rafe was able to monitor what was happening elsewhere in the room. He noticed when General Michel Roussaye took an empty chair at the faro table next to Anderson, noticed the intense words the two men exchanged, which might or might not have anything to do with faro.
Noticed, and frowned.
Chapter 11
The next day, Maggie and Rafe were both silent as they went to the British embassy to visit the Castlereaghs. She briefly considered telling him of her suspicions of Oliver Northwood, but he was too much the cool, remote aristocrat today, his dark face handsome and detached.
They ate in a private dining room, and the excellent luncheon was served on Pauline Bonaparte's own plate, which Wellington had bought along with the house the previous year. Looking every inch a duke's mistress, Maggie wore a sky blue gown with matching ostrich plumes in her hair. Lord Castlereagh was relaxed and witty, and the meal was an enjoyable one.
The talk did not turn serious until a silver pot of coffee was placed on the table and Lady Castlereagh signaled for the servants to withdraw. The foreign minister started the discussion by saying, "Have you heard the latest news from the Tuileries?"
Both of his guests shook their heads. The French king's court at the Tuileries was a whirlpool of rumor and gossip as factions of royalists struggled for ascendancy, but there hadn't been any serious news from that quarter recently.
Castlereagh said, "Fouche has been forced out of the government, and Talleyrand will also be gone in a few days." A spark of humor showed in his eyes. "Whenever Prince Talleyrand comes under heavy criticism, he loftily offers his resignation. Much to his surprise, this time the king decided to accept it."
Maggie bit her lip as she considered the implications, then glanced at Rafe. His eyes were grave. Though Talleyrand was difficult and unpredictable, he had also been brilliant and a force for moderation. His departure might increase the danger for other moderates. She asked, "Has a new prime minister been chosen yet?"
"The tsar suggested that the king choose one of the French royalists who governed for him in Russia, either the Duc de Richelieu or the Count de Varenne. Louis agreed to accept Richelieu," the foreign minister answered. "The consensus in the diplomatic corps is that he will last only a few weeks."